


if she insists, then i insist

by disheveledcurls



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:30:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disheveledcurls/pseuds/disheveledcurls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a way he is not her friend at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if she insists, then i insist

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my lovely best friend Dai (Little.Latina in fanfiction.net) a while ago and inspired by reading Lorine Niedecker's "You Are My Friend" like a million times. Set during early season five. It can be considered a prequel or companion piece to "eyes like wildflowers." One-shot, Kate-centric. The title comes from Motion City Soundtrack's great song, "Alcohol Eyes."

 

 

_my blood approves_

_and kisses are a better fate_

_than wisdom_

-e. e. cummings

_you make me wanna be a human again_

-ingrid michaelson, “palm of your hand”

_nowhere to run to but your love  
over and over with your love_

-keane, “your love”

 

In a way he is not her friend at all. With friends there’s usually a line, a place where one ends and the other begins. There are boundaries, routines, protocol, good intentions. Here instead there are never-ending embraces and _Always_ whispered against her skin. They blend into one another like coffee stains; they overlap and step on each other’s toes like dancers out of sync; they part and they meet again like the sand and the waves in the saddest of windy days. They love. They live in twilight. Friendship she knows - and this isn’t it.

Sometimes she holds her tongue. _You are not my friend_ , she thinks. _I love you and I need you and I would die for you, but you are not my friend_.  Not knowing what they are is frightening. It’s not like the movies, like fairytales, where heroes and villains, lovers and enemies are clear from the start. Instead they’ve torn the walls down and found themselves somewhere strange –between comfort and familiarity, between sacrifice and mundanity.  She’s let him give her piggy-back rides across a wintery Central Park. She’s let him get her coffee every morning. She’s let him take her to the movies. But what exactly is she supposed to do when she’s getting dressed for work and he suddenly, wordlessly, gently bends down and kisses the bullet scar on her chest? And what about their meeting on the bridge, when she instinctively throws her arms around him only to hear him say that she’ll never, never lose him? As if he’s struck a deal with a God she’s not sure she believes in –or worse, as if he’s seen the future and kept it to himself, the very thought of which makes her remarkably anxious. No, she’s definitely at a loss for words with whatever this rough-edged, wonderful thing is. Friendship she knows – it is easy, soft, nice, like a pair of dear old shoes – and this isn’t it.

And yet, she shouldn’t care. If this is all she ever wanted from life (and it is) aside from having her Mum back (which she can’t), there’s no reason why she should keep running round in circles, looking for answers, playing tough, being occasionally terrified and searching for the right word with a mind that sees flaw in everything (comes with the job). She worries about names and she worries about matching and she worries about every damn detail that seems to say _What makes you think this will work?_ The weight of love is gentle in her arms, but it’s weight all the same. Friendship she knows - and this is much heavier.

He tells her to forget about the potential obstacles, to help him make things work day in, day out. _I am still here and we can do this, Kate_. He says it doesn’t matter where they come from but where they’re going together. He leaves notes everywhere, signs of love and life. She keeps them as proof of this unnamed hallowed place they’ve somehow crafted for themselves. Friendship she knows – and it is not this marvelous.

And so she says _yes_ , every day, in every way she can. Yes to living on promises and sleepless nights. Yes to saving each other’s lives. Yes to endless fear. It won’t be easy. It will be nameless and shapeless and despairingly beautiful. It will fit like a glove. She won’t give a damn about the way things look on paper.

(Of course, tomorrow she’ll wake up and start all over again. Some things never change. He says he’d love her even if she –like a modern-day Penelope- rebuilt her walls by night.)

 


End file.
